When the Hail Comes
by whitetiger91
Summary: Sometimes, being alone isn't all it's cracked up to be.


**_This story was written for The Houses Competition, Year 5, Round Two. _**

**_House/team: Gryffindor_**

**_Class subject: Defence Against the Dark Arts_**

**_Story category: Drabble_**

**_Prompt: 2. [Weather] Hail_**

**_Word count: 984 words (Google docs)_**

**_Beta: Crissie (secretfanficlover), Seth (White Eyebrow)_**

**_Extra: Although Nott Snr was a Death Eater, I have a headcanon that he loved his wife and son (when she was alive) very much._**

**_For Hayley—forever a kind, caring friend. You will be missed more than you could ever know. Xx_**

* * *

_**When the Hail Comes**_

**_It was nice when it hailed; Theodore Nott couldn't get enough of it._**

The ten-year-old's dark eyes were fixated on the tiny, white balls of ice falling beyond the dining room window. They were bright against the dark clouds and trees, glimmering like crystals. The more he watched them, the heavier they fell, until it looked like someone in the heavens above was emptying hundreds of bags of pearly Gobstones.

He relaxed in his chair, a small smile forming on his pale face; he'd get the house to himself that evening. His father refused to travel in bad weather, even in light rain showers. Even though hail wouldn't usually stop a wizard from Apparating or using the Floo Network, his father often used it as an excuse not to return home until the next morning—or, in many cases, until a few days later—and had done so for the past two years. Without his mother there, his father had no one to return to.

It suited Theodore just fine. He took a moment to inhale the delicious scent of scrambled eggs before digging into them. The eggs burned his tongue a little, but they warmed him up inside. They were certainly much better than the bland boiled cabbages his father always made them eat to prevent illness. They were also easy to make; just before she'd passed, his mother had shown him how to heat the pan.

He took another bite, chewing slowly and savouring the taste. He was used to eating by himself, yet somehow, the sound of his chewing was even louder than usual. It was matched only by the sound of the hail pelting against the glass, as though it was trying to enter the room. Ignoring it, he finished off the eggs, enjoying every last bite.

Despite the meal's warmth, however, Theodore shivered as he pushed his plate away. A strong wind rattled the windows, joining the hail's chorus of pattering and tapping. He looked over at the large stone fireplace set along the back wall. A few logs were haphazardly stacked inside it; it looked odd without the orange flames dancing around them. The wind howled through the chimney, stirring up the remnants of the ash from the previous night.

He pulled his robes tighter around himself and looked away. Cold or not, he wouldn't light the fire. His father had been sitting in front of it again the night before, his cold eyes glued to the flames. The man had been oblivious to Theodore's presence, not caring that his son needed him. It'd been an improvement to his father's usual barked commands for him to get out of his sight, but not by much. His father wasn't there, though, meaning he could do whatever he wanted.

Smiling at this thought, he glanced out the window to check if it was still hailing and stood up. He knew exactly what he was going to do.

* * *

It was much quieter in the hallway than it had been in the dining room. He could still hear the hail outside, but it was muffled by the thick manor walls. The flickering candles posted along them cast long, dark shadows across the carpeted floor, causing him to shiver again. He quickened his pace, relieved when he finally reached his father's study.

He paused at the door, looking around to ensure his father really wasn't home, before heading inside. He strode past the large, mahogany desk to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf built into the wall. It wasn't hard to spot the book he was looking for; it was the only one whose spine and cover was coated in dust. He pulled it out and took it over to the armchair near the window, which, like the book, had accumulated dust over the years.

Theodore settled into the chair and wiped off the dust with his sleeve. The faded golden title, _Poetry Anthology_, soon shone. He opened the book, careful not to rip the pages, and flicked through its contents. Many of the poems inside were quite boring, but he searched for his mother's favourite. She would always request it, telling them she loved the hope the author spoke about. Theodore would groan—he'd much rather hear about dragons and duels than flowers and maidens—but wouldn't object when she'd pull him into her lap. They'd both lean against the armchair's base as his father would sit in it, reciting the poem with funny hand gestures. The man would pretend to get grumpy when they'd giggle at him, but the twinkle in his eyes let them know that he was enjoying it as much as they were. Theodore's heart raced in anticipation of finally reading it again.

Unfortunately, his attention was soon drawn from the book. A deafening roar had enveloped the room, and as he peered through the window behind him, he saw that the hailstones were now larger than Golden Snitches. Squinting, he looked down and saw that the lawn was blanketed in ice. Anyone who tried Apparating into the manor's grounds would slip—if they weren't hit by the heavy hailstones first. Even if his father did want to come home, he probably couldn't now.

He turned from the window and concentrated on the poem. The words were the same as they'd always been, but they didn't bring a smile to his face as he'd hoped. He clapped his hands over his ears, hoping to block out the thundering noises outside. When this didn't work, he read the words aloud, trying to imitate his father's enthusiastic voice.

Still, the hail persisted, making the room colder than ever before. Theodore gave up and closed the book, his heart sinking; without his parents, it wasn't the same. He brought his knees up to his chin as his eyes wandered back to the window.

_**Sometimes it was nice when it hailed, but Theodore Nott had certainly had enough of it.**_


End file.
